When I was little
I truly believed
my singing voice had been
gifted to me
by the angels
and that I’d been chosen…
that I was important.
It’s amusing now to reflect
on the thoughts I had
as a child
I mean, I’m not even a particularly
impressive singer
and I don’t believe
in god either.
These streets;
the ink smudge where the motion repeats
dry, cracked heels, dirty feet
Point A to Point B
and somewhere in between:
thoughtless impulse.
I spit a cigarette
lit the wrong way in the dark
a fucking waste
the taste never forgotten.
There’s six in this group
I flat-out refuse
to get in the boot.
I’m a good girl
doing the bad, coming of age, acting out
vulgar and know-it-all
unladylike and loud.
I guess (unknowingly)
all part of the “figuring it out”
through trial and mistake
and the choices I make
as part of the shaping
taking corners without breaking –
I squeal in delight.